


Down the Rabbit Hole

by rebeldesigns (rebeldesire)



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, Multi, Tumblr Memes, crackship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeldesire/pseuds/rebeldesigns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of crossover oneshots in which Bonnie encounters the likes of Loki, Jon Snow, Chris Redfield, Wolverine... Because, let's face it; the men of Mystic Falls just can't handle Bonnie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loki

**Author's Note:**

> So this series of unconnected crossover oneshots was born out of a semi-joking Tumblr meme where we (the Bennett Brigade) decide to ship Bonnie with every character that we want, since she can't seem to get a good love interest on the show. However, I and some others decided to take it further and actually write fic and make art for these pairings. These are just oneshots, little things I posted on [Tumblr](http://flameo-sassbender.tumblr.com) to go along with the artwork that was requested.
> 
> As always, I disclaim and own nothing but my words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trickster has chosen his Queen.

“How do you suffer them?” His voice was smooth and rippling as amber, and Bonnie shuddered to hear it. There was something seductive in the cool power of his voice, resonant and musical and altogether ensnaring.

Trickster indeed.

“Suffer who?” Bonnie replied lightly, careful to keep her voice and stance impassive. He drew closer now, boots whispering across the flagstone as he circled her thoughtfully. His shrewd eyes, two glittering slivers of ice, seemed to miss nothing.

He uttered an amused, delicate snort at her words. His lip curled and he threw her a look of distaste. “The mortals, of course. How can you stand them?”

“I _am_ a mortal,” Bonnie reminded him coldly.

A gentle, dangerous smile blossomed across his handsome face and he shook his head. “Oh no, Bonnie. On Earth you were a mortal. Here in Asgard, you can be a true _goddess_. Join me, and be a queen among men.”

Loki held out his hand, pale and slender fingers reaching for her own.


	2. Jon Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie finds herself face to face with a certain bastard.

"Who… _What_ are you?"

It was a defeated question, a tone of weary acceptance, almost as if he already knew what she was, yet wanted to hear the word pass from her own lips rather than give voice to it himself. The man frowned, eyes watching carefully as the albino wolf, every bit the embodiment of shadow but for its pelt, paced silently closer to her, nosing the air before her with a calm predation that unnerved her. Its red eyes seemed to glow in the scant light of the tallow candles, which sputtered and dripped hot wax over the piles of parchment and old tomes littering the table between them.

“Ghost, to me,” the man commanded, and the beast obeyed, although it gave Bonnie one last baleful look before padding away.

Bonnie sighed and relaxed a little, exhaling in a puff of steam as the bitter cold air captured her breath and whisked it away into the dark ether.

The iron in his voice glinted almost as sharp as the wolf’s teeth. “You failed to answer my question. What are you? A spy? An assassin, mayhap?” He heaved a sigh and shook his head, toying absently with the hilt of the wicked-looking sword strapped to his hips. “No, that’s not right. And you do not have the looks of a wildling. Your clothes…” He trailed off, seemingly at a loss as he gestured a gloved hand at her jeans, torn and bloodied, and her bare, shivering arms poking through her ripped tee shirt.

“Look,” Bonnie swiped a tired hand across her face. “My name is Bonnie. Bennett,” She added as an afterthought, not that her name likely held much quarter in these parts. “I don’t know who you are, where I am, or how I got here. I was trying…” she cut herself off. Somehow she got the feeling that this man would not be so tolerant of her magic. “…I was trying to get home,” she finished lamely, breaking eye contact. “Since you haven’t killed me yet, I’m assuming you’re a somewhat decent man.” The stranger’s face remained impassive, although his wolf’s ears pricked up. Bonnie hugged her arms to her sides. “Will you help me?”

“Bonnie,” he repeated slowly. His face softened just slightly, and something akin to a smile graced his lips. Bonnie’s mouth parted; this man truly _was_ young, despite the hardened manner in which he carried himself. He might have been of age with her.

“Well, Bonnie Bennett. My direwolf seems to trust you, for some reason, and Ghost has never been a poor judge of character. I suppose I should trust his counsel. I have paid dearly for ignoring it in the past.” The tired smile found its way to his eyes. Something about them was so earnest, yet guarded, that Bonnie was at a loss for words when she raised her gaze to his.

His blacks swirled like ink at his feet as he stepped around the table towards her. The firelight cast his face into stark relief for the first time that evening and Bonnie flushed slightly, taking in the lengthy sweep of his lashes, his high cheekbones, his parted lips, his dark gaze.

“I am Lord Commander Jon Snow, nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He turned askance and gestured out the high-set window, towards the frozen, snow-strewn winds howling round the eaves of the castle keep.

“Welcome to the Wall.”


	3. Wolverine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonnie may have bitten off more than she can chew.

The word manly seemed too… inadequate to describe him, she decided. He was more than rugged, he was in-your-face feral, the kind of virile that was more animal than man, the kind of attractive that surpassed handsome and reached downright profane. Bonnie swallowed as she watched him, reaching for the lukewarm piss the dive passed off as tap beer. She downed it compulsively, wishing she had something colder, or stronger, to drink. Something told her that she was in way over her head with this one.

His back muscles rippled as he leaned over and positioned his shot, thoughtfully gnashing the unlit cigar fixed between his even white teeth. He was tall, easily dominating the pool table he loomed over. He sank his shot with ease and money changed hands as his opponent, glaring, slapped the roll of cash into the man’s upturned palm. The man codenamed Wolverine chuckled to himself, pocketed the cash, and started towards the bar.

Bonnie quickly swiveled around in her seat, hoping that he didn’t catch her staring. Her heart jackhammered in her chest as he approached, and her eyes fluttered closed as she heard the telltale scrape of wood on wood as the barstool next to hers was suddenly occupied.

“Whiskey,” he grunted, tapping his knuckles on the bar.

Bonnie busily occupied herself with her drink, hoping that he wouldn’t notice who, exactly, he had sat next to. Futile hopes, as it would turn out.

He broke the silence first. “Well, darlin’,” he rumbled, leveling her with his impenetrable onyx eyes.

Bonnie bit her lip, turning fraction by fraction until she was facing him. His gaze smoldered, and she shuddered. His lips were curled back in a grin that promised bad, bad things.

“You found me. Now what exactly were you planning on doin’ with me next?”


	4. Chris Redfield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a gun just isn't enough.

Their footsteps echoed as they ran. Behind them, the bone-chilling howls of the undead began anew.

They turned a corner and Bonnie saw them. “Chris!” she cried, skidding to a halt.

He acted instinctively, as he was trained.

“Down, get _down_!”

Chris shoved her to the side and swung his arm around, rapid fire taking down three zombies that had gotten past the barricade. Outside, the infected screamed and snarled, arms reaching through the broken glass of the storefront, scrabbling unfeeling across the jagged glass as they attempted to squeeze through all at once.

“Damn it,” Chris swore as he saw the damage the zombies had already done. They were trapped, for real this time.

He slid down against the wall where Bonnie was still sprawled and sat there, panting. It seemed like it never ended, the running. He checked the gun magazine and grimaced at what he saw. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face, mingling with the blood. With some effort, he turned to face Bonnie. “Any bright ideas? I’m fresh out.”

Bonnie chuckled mirthlessly. “Only one,” she admitted. “But you’ve got to trust me.”

He raised a questioning eyebrow. Bonnie held up a finger and leaned over him, reaching down into his pants pocket.

“Hey,” Chris warned, trying to push her gently away, but he drew back, puzzled, as she pulled out his flask of water.

“Like I said,” Bonnie whispered, their faces close enough to touch. “Trust me.” She pressed a hand to his chest, briefly, and he stilled, eyes wide as he gazed up at her. Bonnie then rose, unscrewing the flask as she did so. Tossing the cap aside, she strode back out into the open, facing the barricaded entryway where the zombies were still desperately trying to gain entry.

Chris regained his senses and scrambled after her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Bonnie ignored him, instead dousing her hands with the water and pouring the rest onto the linoleum floor. Chris let out a groan as he watched their last precious water supply dwindle before his eyes.

“Come on,” Bonnie whispered, and flicked her wrist. With a sound like a thunder clap, the doors of the department store heaved and gave way, chains falling uselessly to the floor. Chris cried out and raised his gun as the zombies spilled into the storefront.

Bonnie smirked. She raised her hands to the heavens and allowed herself a moment of satisfaction for what was to come.

“ _Incendia_!”

The store exploded in a ball of fire.

The zombies did not even have much chance to react—one second, they were there, the next, they were vaporized. Then, as quickly as it had occurred, the backdraft sucked out the flames and extinguished them. The store was left a black, smoking shell, save for the protective circle she had drawn with the water.

Chris stood shell-shocked beside her, Glock dropping limply to his side. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

Bonnie swayed on the spot, vision swimming.

“Fuck me,” Chris finally managed, mouth agape at the damage she had wrought.

“Why not,” Bonnie breathed, before promptly passing out.


	5. Robb Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is his hand, guiding his wroth to those she wills.

She appears to him in his dreams, like a wayfaring pagan goddess incarnate. She’s hooded and cloaked in rippling blacks ( _like his brother, his brother gone to ice_ ), and her eyes glow like two bitter emeralds, tremulous and hard enough to cut in their stare, cut him to the quick. She never speaks. Not a word passes through her crimson lips but it is enough and when he gazes on her face ( _slightly crooked, slightly exquisite_ ) he knows, he _knows_ things he shouldn’t know but does.

She appears to him in his dreams and when he wakes he tells his men to head east, east to where they will find the Lannisters laid vulnerable for the taking in the Whispering Wood. It is a quick and decisive defeat and he is left with Jaime Lannister as captive and an army flush and heady with their first victory.

 _King of the North_ , they shout, raising voice and hand in cry.

 _King of the North_ , she whispers into his hair when sweet sleep finds him at long last, and he trembles as her hands trace a fiery path up the bare of his neck to lay frigid palm to the rough expanse of his bearded cheek, shudders as her palms explore on his body the blooming bruises and puckered flesh wounds she has wrought with own her doing. She chose him as her champion. Her will is his own. The dreamspace they share swirls around them, silent and silver and rippling like a looking glass, and all he can see is _her_ , _she_ reflected in its translucence. His gratitude for her foresight does not find voice but she smiles gently nonetheless, and he kneels before her, reverently, fearfully, adoringly. Her will is his own.

 _Bonnie._ Her name is a prayer to the gods of his forebears, a word made perfectly for his lips to form, it seems. Her hair fans about her like a halo and her dark skin glimmers gold and ochre in the light that he cannot see. It’s a primal thought, wanting to taste her honeyed skin, to make the witch goddess shudder as he does at her touch. It’s a simple yet basal urge that does not shame him as it would in his waking thoughts, for he knows that it is pure and honest and somehow true to his duty to her that he thinks it at all. However, he knows better. He wants her for himself, this beautiful woman, but he knows he has not the strength to endure her.

She could destroy him.

He gets close enough to touch this time but then he wakes, chest heaving in a cold sweat. Grey Wind paces outside his tent and the wind whistles like a woman’s sigh through the flaps, with the first faint light of dawn drawn in tentative smudges across the horizon.

He knows what he must do.

He must, and he knows. Her will is his own.

He calls the bannermen to arms. They ride.

—

The next time he sees her it will be his last.


	6. Dean Winchester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wayward son visits the soldier of heaven.

She hears things she shouldn’t.

She hears their voices, loud and piercing in her skull day and night, night and day, and no amount of Stelazine or Thorazine or any of the other -zines they drug her up with twice a day can block them out.

She knows things she shouldn’t.

Doesn’t _think_ them or _feel_ them— _knows_. It shouldn’t be true, it’ _can’t_ be true, it goes against everything that she was taught to be real. And yet, she watches the news, when she can. The signs are there. Everything that they said would happen, has. And so at night she screams, screams to block out the sounds of their whispers, so deafening and head-pounding that she blacks out before the orderlies can sedate her.

The man comes on a Tuesday.

It’s visiting hours on Tuesday. She’s long ago given up on having any visitors. Surprise is a long-forgotten emotion, and she welcomes it with relish.

He has freckles.

That’s the first thing she notices when he approaches her in the common area, wide, cocksure smile stretching across his face when he catches her staring. He wears flannel. Worn, torn jeans. Banged-up shit-kickers. He has a silver band on the ring finger of his right hand and a fresh scar across the knuckles of his left. His eyes are some indeterminate cross between sun-kissed wheat and the deep, effervescent green of freshly-cut grass. His stride makes her smile—it’s a swagger that smacks of Wayne-esque cowboy, all bow legs and deep-seated center of gravity that makes the world fall into step, bend to _his_ magnetic energy, beside him. He has that air about him, and she can’t help but stare.

The words that come out of his mouth are less charming.

It sends her reeling, the things he knows. The things he knows about _her_ , the noises inside her head.

 _Angel._ _Fallen_. _Grace_.

_Demons. Hell. War._

The worst part is that she believes him, every word. Thus completes the cycle of her insanity, she supposes ruefully.

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until he pulls out a handkerchief, spotty and slightly stained, from the breast pocket of his flannel jacket. He hesitates, then presses the cloth gently into her upturned palm, curling her fingers around it tightly and holding them in place. His hands are warm.

The voices swell and then are— _suddenly, blissfully, shockingly_ —muffled, and for the first time in two years, Bonnie feels like she can _breathe_.

—

The world is now a smaller place because of him, this man and his truths, but at the same time it’s so vast and troubling that at any moment now she knows the ground will open up and she will be swallowed forever.

“What now?” She asks him.

He contemplates, then turns towards her and holds out his hand to take. It’s scarred and calloused, but it’s steady.

“Now, you trust me.”


	7. Captain America (Game)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part one of three. The Avengers might finally have found an asset that will win them this war.

  


Most men would look downright ludicrous in a spangled spandex bodysuit and knee-high red leather boots; but then again, he was not most men. Not that she of all people needed reminding of this fact—it was seared into her mind, unforgettable like so much of the past few months she wanted so desperately to forget.

He carried himself like a man who didn’t realize how impressive he was, despite all that he was sure to have accomplished. She allowed herself a few selfish moments of admiration for his form, eyes flicking from stem to stern, trying to ignore the involuntary clench in her gut when she managed to get a good, proper look at him. All-American indeed, born and bred (or created, if the rumors were to be believed) judging by his looks, which were a touch too wholesome for her tastes. Wheat-gold hair combed perfectly in place. Straight nose, impressive bone structure, pink lips fixed in a thin line. Cornflower-blue eyes, framed by lashes so long that she was practically offended. They swept high and low with each blink, and she found herself momentarily transfixed by their motion.

He towered over her as he stood, verily possessing the solid, sculpted musculature of an Olympian male in the prime of his youth. Of course, not quite the size of the blond Viking with the L’Oreal hair and the Shakespearian baritone. That man was built like a brick shithouse. She wondered if the hammer-wielding mountain of a man was behind that one-way interrogation mirror as well. She winked and blew a kiss to the glass, just in case.

The man cleared his throat pointedly and looked her in the eye for the first time since he had entered the room. His gaze pierced, reminding her of another blue-eyed man she once knew, lifetimes ago it seemed. Bonnie smirked at him as he stepped more fully into the sterile space, gingerly placing a black personnel folder on the stainless steel table between them. He looked to his left at the door from which he had just entered, giving a curt nod to someone out of her line of sight. At his cue, the hydraulics kicked in and the door sealed with a hermetic hiss.

They were alone.

He pulled the chair out and sat down across from her, crossing his legs stiffly at the ankles and folding his arms across his broad torso. They stared at one another for a few moments before he broke the silence.

“I understood you asked for me by name.” His voice filled the empty space of the confinement cell with great swells before finally quieting. Authoritative, commanding, even, but not domineering in his tone. The kind of voice that possessed such quiet influence that people would follow his order without question or thought.

Bonnie shook her head. “No. I asked for _Steven Rogers_. I didn’t recall requesting his tights-wearing, star-spangled alter-ego.” She gestured to his suit with a dismissive wave.

The man called Captain America sat back in his seat, allowing only a ripple of a reaction ( _frustration, surprise, perhaps?_ ) to pass over his face before replying. “I assure you, Ma’am, both identities are one and the same as far as I, and for that matter, the American people, are concerned.”

Bonnie snorted. “ _Ma’am_? Please, Captain, try to act like you belong to this time. Calling me my name will work just fine.”

If he was offended or surprised by her remark, he never showed it. He flipped open the black file folder with a deft flick of his thumb, eyes dropping down to skim the contents briefly. She was awarded with a smile when he was finished. It didn’t reach his eyes, which were wary as ever as they trained upon her own.

“Very well, Miss Bennett. Bonnie. That’s a nice name. May I call you Bonnie instead?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “Great. Now, since you specifically requested me, _Bonnie_ , and you have been moved to this particular containment area which, as you’ve probably guessed, is not a level seven security zone, I assume you understand the purpose of this little conversation.”

Bonnie gave him an indulgent smile. “Well, your superiors have finally deemed to bust me out of solitary confinement after two weeks of forcible detention and strict observation. I suppose that _this_ is the sound of my Sixth Amendment rights kicking in?” She gestured between the two of them with a finger.

He licked his lips before speaking. Bonnie followed the action lazily with her gaze, which seemed to unnerve him. The Captain tapped the black folder resting beneath his fingers on the table. “Do you know what this is, Bonnie? What the nature of this folder is?”

She leaned across the table bodily, draping herself over the metal to inch closer. She gently pressed her fingertips on top of the folder and pushed it back towards him with painstaking motions. “I think the more important question, _Captain_ , is, do _you_? Do you fully understand who I am? Or what? If you did, you never would have voluntarily agreed to walk into this interrogation in the first place.”

There it was. A tick in his jawline, barely discernible, except that Bonnie had been trained to watch for these things. She let out a low whistle. “Except that you didn’t agree voluntarily, did you, Cap?” She lowered her voice and leaned even closer to him. To his credit, he did not move a muscle, instead gazing at her with the same calm, steadfast resolve that she imagined he handled all of his missions with. She shook her head, baffled. “What _is_ it you people want with me?”

When he sighed, he looked a lot older than his years. Or, perhaps, he looked the age he would have been. Should have been. He carried the weight of his weariness in his shoulders, which sagged slightly as he unhooked one long leg from the other and sat forward, so they were eye-to-eye.

“Bonnie, I think you know exactly why you’re here and what we want of you.”

She lifted a shoulder noncommittally, raven curls spilling over it to sway against the back of her chair as she did. “Maybe. But here’s the question of the hour, Captain Rogers…” She lowered her voice further still to a purr, smile curling darkly across her face like smoke. “What is S.H.I.E.L.D. willing to do for _me_?”


End file.
